


The Supernaturally Rad

by Flanemoji



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Allusions to Murder, Allusions to death, Dancing, F/F, F/M, Human Ben, M/M, Making Out, Multi, Reddie, Vampire Beverly Marsh, Vampire Eddie Kaspbrak, Werewolf Bill Denbrough, Werewolf Mike Hanlon, Werewolf Richie Tozier, blood sucking, vampire stanley uris, werewolves and vampires, witch patty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25878139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flanemoji/pseuds/Flanemoji
Summary: A collection of ficlets about werewolves, vampires, a witch and a human. Subject to rating changes.I made these for some werewolf richie/ vampire eddie content. I might revamp some concepts but here are the few things I've written so far... enjoy :)
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	1. A Walk to the Library

Choosing this class was a mistake. 

For one, there is a fucking quiz every goddamned week. There’s two discussions due on tuesdays, there’s a test every two weeks, a group project, and three separate presentations. It’s fucking… it’s bullshit is what it is. Does this dick of a professor think he’s only taking one fucking class? 

Eddie wishes he could go back, telepathically tell past Eddie Kaspbrak: “Hey, don’t take this fucking class, because it’s a nightmare, it’s at ten in the morning so it ruins your whole day, and—”

A crumbled up wad of paper hits him on his left shoulder and he  _ seethes _ , has to take a very calculated breath in and then force it out, count to ten, and ignore the way his eye twitches just to not snap his pen in half. 

_ Oh _ , and his best friend-slash-the most annoying person in the world, Richie Tozier sits three rows behind him. 

Eddie takes another deep breath and goes back to scribbling notes, pointedly ignoring when Richie  _ psssts _ at him, probably for something stupid. Then the professor snaps his fingers and says: ‘ _ Mr. Tozier, would you like to pay attention?’ _ to which Mr. Tozier replies: ‘ _ not really, no.’  _ and Eddie has to bite down on his tongue not to snort out a laugh. 

Stupid motherfucker. 

Class finally ends and Eddie starts shoving shit into his messenger bag, thanking whatever creatures of heaven and hell that may or may not exist that his next class isn’t until one in the afternoon. He’s piling his notes into a folder when a big, looming shape stands at his side, wide palms flat on his desk. Eddie wrinkles his nose and sniffs delicately. “God, you fucking stink.”

Richie really does, but it’s not his fault. Vampire noses don’t mix well with werewolf scents, but Eddie has started associating that wild dog smell as something innately  _ Richie,  _ and he doesn’t hate it as much as he claims he does. 

Richie doesn’t need to know that. 

Richie smiles a wide toothy grin and shrugs one shoulder. “Oh, give it up, Spaghetti! I know you love it.” He winks, leaning more heavily on the desk. 

“I really,  _ really _ don’t.” Eddie rolls his eyes and slings his bag over his shoulder. “It’s like a dog went out and rolled around in the mud, then threw itself in a river and air dried.” 

“How’d you know what I was doin’ last night?” 

Eddie laughs despite himself, a short huff of breath before he clears his throat. “Don’t you have anyone else to annoy?” Eddie takes a quick look around, notices mostly everyone has filtered out of the room. “Aren't you getting antsy having spent more than fifteen minutes away from your pack?” 

Richie raises his eyebrows and pretends to look offended. “What about you? Isn’t the daytime gonna give your dewicate skin a sunbuwn.” He rests one of his hands against his cheek and tilts his head. Eddie flips him off and shoves his baseball cap a little further down over his face. 

Richie laughs, rounding the desk to follow Eddie when he stomps out of the class. He’s shouting apologies after him, laughing the whole way towards the library. Eddie knows for a fact that Richie hates it there, because it’s quiet and stuffy and Richie gets restless easily, but Richie follows along anyway. They talk about finals, the classes they don’t have together, how Richie nearly got into a fight with a neighboring pack on the outskirts of the city (Eddie scolds him for being such a dumbass to try and cross territorial lines, but Richie breezes over it like it’s nothing.) 

“Anyways,” Richie interrupts Eddie mid-rant. “I was thinking you could come over to my place soon. I got some new games we could play, and a few new records. Plus I got snacks.” Richie smiles wide again, eyebrows waggling. 

“Snacks?” 

“Yeah, Mikey got me some good cuts over from the shop, and I snagged some juicy cuts for you, I’ll cook ‘em just the way you like ‘em. Bloody as hell.” Richie winks again, eyes shining like a toddler about to get a new toy, and Eddie wants to say absolutely not, but… 

“Fine, but  _ only  _ if you help me with the discussion that’s due tomorrow for Humberts class.” Richie is cheering before Eddie can finish his demands, practically wiggling in his skin with excitement. “You’re lucky I’m hungry and Mike chooses the best cuts.” Eddie sticks his nose up in the air, like the promise of laying around on the carpet listening to Richie’s records wasn’t enough to make Eddie show up at his door. 

“Speaking of that…” 

Eddie tenses, waving his hand around while they stand on the steps to the library. 

“No, nope. Don’t bring it up. I’m  _ fine _ . Statistically speaking I can go up to  _ six months _ without and I have supplements so I’m fine.” Eddie gives Richie a glare that might make another person tuck tail and run; but not Richie. 

“I’m just  _ saying, _ Spagheds, you’re looking a little gaunt… pale around the edges. I don’t like that look on you.” Richie shifts around, putting his hands in his pockets and then pulling them out, scratching at a curl behind his ear, nibbling on his lip. He’s close to Eddie, radiating warmth and looking pink and healthy and—

“I’m  _ fine _ .” Eddie insists, turning around immediately before his mind can wonder. “I’ll see you at your place, I have shit to do, unlike some lazy animals around here.”

He hears Richie laugh as the doors close behind him, but it’s definitely not as boisterous and excited as it usually is. 

The library is cool and empty, the perfect environment for Eddie to focus on his coursework and ignore the gnawing ache at his core that begs for attention. It makes his throat feel dry and his arms itchy, so he tongues at his fangs while he searches through his bag for his notes so he can get started. 

It’s a problem that can wait. 


	2. Blurry Neon

They don’t usually all go out like this. 

Well, scratch that. They do go out, when they can. Bev and Eddie frequently hit up the little line of thrift stores downtown, and he and Stan like to visit the local coffee shops, searching for the best cup of coffee (it doesn’t exist, not like it did quite a few years ago.) Sometimes Patty will tag along, but Eddie gets way too irritated by being the third wheel, despite how adorable Stan and Patty are (it’s sort of disgusting.) 

When they  _ do _ all get a chance to hang out together outside of their apartment, it’s much nicer to go down by the pier and enjoy the night air, Beverly smoking and recounting stories, or head down to the park after sunset, where Stan points out where the birds like to nestle for the night. Eddie finds comfort in their little routines, draws them up into his memory when things are really fucking stressful. 

Tonite, though, Beverly was itching for a drink and loud music. Everyone was free (well, Eddie was decidedly  _ not _ free, but Bev  _ insisted _ he needed a break from his work) so they piled onto the train and headed for her favorite nightclub. It was an abandoned church filled up with lounge areas and bright lights, and they were known for playing the loudest eighties and nineties dance music known to the city, so of course, Beverly adored it. 

Plus, the patrons were usually less than upstanding citizens, which just happened to be Bev’s preferred choice in meal. 

Eddie wants to relax, he does, because the music is good and they have a nice spot off in the corner to themselves, a plush couch with shag pillows. But all Eddie can think about is how much work he has, how the music is vibrating into his bones and ringing in his ears, and how Stan and Patty are already definitely a little drunk on blood and liquor (Eddie had noticed, right before they’d left, how the spot around Pattys neck was pink, and the little holes looked newly scarred over.) The two of them are curled up in the corner of their sitting space, wrapped up in each other and whispering. Patty keeps running her fingers over the ring Stan has hanging from his neck, and Eddie would be this next meal that she’s whispering words in old languages that no one truly understands but her. 

Eddie has to look away, cheeks heating with the little blood they can. He plays with his drink, takes thoughtful sips as he scans the crowd. 

He spots Bev twirling over, noticing her bright eyes and healthy flush when she takes a seat next to him. Her ruby red lips are sparkly in the changing lights, and the way she’s smiling has Eddie smirking right back. 

“You know when you feed on the inebriated it hits us like, three times as hard, Bev.” 

She tips her head back and laughs, reaches for Eddie’s drink to take a swig. “Of course I do! That’s the whole reason I do it! Besides, I’ve gotta start early so I have less work at the end of the night when I’m tired.” She pouts at Eddie, and he knows he’s going to be hauling something somewhere deep in the night later. He sighs and throws his arm over her shoulder. 

“What did he do?” 

“I caught him taking pictures of girls dancing under their dresses.” 

Eddie wrinkles his nose, taking another drink. He can’t blame Beverly for the way she chooses her meals; it’s really a service to society, if you look at it. 

Beverly can’t stand to sit too still for too long, so she begs and wheedles until Eddie agrees to join her on the dance floor, way too sober to be doing so. They sway and move and make silly faces to the music though, twisting and twirling with every new song. It’s nice to get his mind off of things, to focus all his anxious energy into movement, like when he used to have time to run track. 

“Hey!” Bev shouts over the bass, pulling Eddie close and cupping her hand over her mouth. “Isn’t that Big Bill and his pack? I see your friend Richie there!” 

Eddie turns to look towards the direction she’s gesturing at, feeling a quick jolt through his chest when Richie spots him, face lighting up with excited recognition. Eddie wants to run off the floor, but Richie is already bulldozing his way over to them at the center, the crowd parting easily like the seas for Moses. 

Fuck, that’s kind of a gay analogy isn’t it? 

Eddie shakes his head and turns back towards Bev, continues dancing like he doesn’t notice that distinct Richie smell wafting over towards him above all the others. He feels a warm hand on his shoulder, hot breath at his ear. 

“Spaghetti! Never thought I’d catch you at a place like this!” Richie is smiling that toothy grin of his, where the tip of his canines are showing just at the corner of his mouth, and _ goddammit Eddie stop thinking about his teeth!  _

Beverly interrupts, laughing and talking over the music. “I dragged him along, cause he needed a break! Beverly Marsh.” She twirls and offers her hand, smiling as bright as the sun. 

“Well Miss Marsh,” Richie grabs her hands and kisses her knuckles— Eddie swears he sees a smug smile on his face when he does it, and no, it definitely  _ isn’t  _ in relation to the stirring feeling in Eddie’s chest at the action, because it’s not  _ there _ — “I thank thee, ‘cause lil’ ol’ Kaspbrak is quite the workaholic. Richie Tozier.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and shoves at him, laughing when Bev pulls her hand away and makes a big show of wiping it on her shirt. She grabs Eddie’s hand and twirls herself into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder to look up at Richie. “Well, Mister Tozier, care to have a dance with us?” 

Richie  _ does  _ dance with them, spinning around the floor to decades of pop and dance music. At some point, Beverly swishes away into the crowd, lost in the masses and leaving Richie and Eddie alone. They keep dancing, the heavy beats of the speakers vibrating the floor, bringing them close together. 

Eddie’s not sure how they end up  _ so _ close though, with Richie hands on his waist and Eddie’s arms around his shoulders. Richie isn’t a terrible dancer—not good, mind you, but not terrible— and there’s something about the way he moves his hips to the rhythm of the music, easy and carefree and adaptable. 

“I didn’t peg you as much of a dancer, Ed’s.” Richie leans down to half-yell into Eddie’s ear over the music, pulling back to smile down at him. And  _ oh _ isnt that a fucking concept— how Richie stares him down from his massive height, how his hands feel so big against his back and hips, the way his wide shoulders feel under Eddie’s palms. 

“I guess you don’t really know me that well then, Tozier.” Eddie raises one thick eyebrow, shifts his body even closer when the music dips low. 

“Maybe not, but I’d like to.” 

Richie looks at him, with light eyes that have the tiniest rim of color, blown pupils obstructing the iris. Eddie swears he can feel every movement, the twitch of Richie’s fingers against him, the way the muscles of his bicep flex when Eddie slides his hands down them. The music is pounding hard, a fake heartbeat that rattles him down to his bones, makes it feel like there’s blood rushing through him. Everything starts to get hazy, blurry neon lights fading in and out of focus with Richie at the center, big and shadowy against it. He’s warm, so fucking warm, and Eddie feels dazed when he drags his fingers up to his jawline. 

He brushes against the pulse point there, licks his lips when he feels how hard it’s hammering, and it’s all he can concentrate on. The  _ thump thump thump _ against his fingers, the red flush against Richie’s cheekbones, the heat that radiates off him, seeps into Eddie like the music vibrating his bones. Something gnaws at his chest, raw and scathing, his throat feels so, so dry and he is so… he’s so..

He’s so fucking  _ hungry _ .

His fingers grip tight into Richie’s arms, and Richie’s mouth is moving, saying something, but Eddie can’t hear it above all the noise and beats and how fucking  _ good  _ he smells—

“Eddie! Eddie, honey, hello!” 

He feels cool fingers on his jaw, turning his face. A blurry Beverly comes into view, like a beautiful Manet painting smudged with colors. He breathes heavily, feeling like a lead weight, and it’s Richie keeping him up, warm,  _ solid Richie, Richie, Richie… _

“Oh shit. Oh shit okay, not good.” Beverly says, snapping at Eddie and grabbing his hands. Richie is protesting, asking what’s wrong, but Eddie’s tongue is lead and sandpaper. He doesn’t fight Beverly when she drags him towards the door, nearly falls into her arms when she shoves him outside into the cold. 

As soon as the frigid air hits him, Eddie sucks in breaths like a dying man, gasps and wheezes that spread from his lungs to his body. Things finally start to return to focus, and his swimming head starts to clear with the cool night. Bev is pushing his hair out of his eyes, holding his face and talking to him until the words begin to register. 

“-ddie, Eddie snap out of it, c’mon you can’t do this here, sweetie. There’s too many people around.” 

“I’m—” Eddie takes in another measured breath, puts his hand over Beverly’s and looks at her. “I’m okay. I’m fine. I was just— overwhelmed.” 

She purses her lips, brows furrowed down in that way that means she’s piecing together a puzzle, and that isn’t good for anyone. Realization seems to dawn in her slowly and then all at once, and she brings a delicately manicured hand up to her face. “Oh, Eddie, honey,  _ no,  _ you can’t!” 

“C-can’t what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Eddie plays the idiot and pushes his hands through his hair, making a mess of it. 

“ _ Eddie!  _ Look, I’m all for you dating him or whatever—”

“We are  _ not _ dating!” 

“But you  _ cannot _ feed off of him, Eddie! You know I’m not usually the voice of reason but you  _ know _ what happens!” 

Eddie huffs indignantly, brushes himself off like there’s lint and dust on his outfit. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about Bevvie. I just haven’t eaten lately, and there’s a  _ lot _ of excited humans in there.” 

He knows she doesn’t believe him, feels so exposed, like Beverly can see the incessant want— no,  _ need _ — in him when it comes to that fucking dog boy. He’s scared to even analyze it himself, because with thoughts of Richie come a whole plethora of confusing thoughts and feelings and visceral  _ desires _ Eddie isn’t sure he’s ready to face yet. 

So he brushes off Bev’s concerns and heads back inside. The rest of Richie’s pack, Bill and Mike, are sitting at their little couch area when they get back in, talking and passing drinks around. If Richie noticed something odd about what happened on the dance floor, he doesn’t say anything. 

He  _ does _ give Eddie a look, a quick glance that sends a lightning bolt shiver down his spine and makes him clear his throat. 

It’s fine. It’s totally fine. 


	3. More Intimate than Sex

Eddie says he’s going to feel weird after.

Richie just sort of… brushes it off, like he does mostly everything, but  _ especially _ because he wants Eddie to do this. 

He wants Eddie to eat. 

He wants it to be  _ his  _ blood. (There is a quiet, desperate part of him that says he  _ needs _ it, but Richie isn’t ready to think too hard about that.)

If you’d told Richie that this is what he’d be doing after class today, he would’ve laughed and called bullshit. He might have been secretly hopeful, he might have maybe kept the idea for the sleep-muddled thoughts reserved for right before bed, but he would have called bullshit, because his best friend, local stressed vampire Eddie Kaspbrak, doesn’t drink just  _ any _ blood, let alone Richie’s freaky werewolf blood. 

Or so he thought. 

It had all started when Eddie barged into his apartment, ranting up a storm about a project and a paper and math homework. Eddie, overachiever that he is, chose to triple major and take more classes than even a non-human should, and Richie, slacker that he is, has a lot of time on his hands, because doing well in school comes pretty naturally to him. So when Eddie is pacing around the living room, throwing his hands in the air and screaming about  _ Professor dick hole _ this and  _ useless bitch lab partner  _ that, Richie took matters into his own hands. 

He forced Eddie to sit down and take some breaths. He promised to help him with all the school work tonight  _ and _ tomorrow, since they both have no classes. 

And then he asked the forbidden question. 

_ “When’s the last time you ate?” _

Richie, for his part, hates to follow any sort of advice or direction, but through painstaking trial and error, he has learned that certain wise words should be heeded. For example, asking Eddie if he’s eaten, which is a monumental  _ no-no _ , because without fail, Eddie’s face goes through a myriad of emotions (shock, hesitancy, guilt, and finally: anger), until it settles into him throwing a fit of facts at his poor victim about how vampire eating habits are none of their fucking business. 

But Richie has also been around Eddie quite a lot, and for quite a long time, and he can  _ tell _ when Eddie hasn’t been taking care of himself. 

His eyes move around in that shifty way, where he notices every little movement. He’s got bags under them, and his cheekbones look more pronounced than usual. His hair gets less shiny and his skin looks less suntanned and his freckles blend in with the rest of his face— and  _ no _ it is  _ not _ weird for Richie to notice all of that, it’s just friendship. Right? Right. 

So Richie braves the storm to ask the dreaded question, and he  _ knows _ things are bad when Eddie doesn’t even seem to have the energy to fire back like he usually does; he just slumps down on the couch and fidgets with loose threads on his sweater. 

He admits to Richie he doesn’t remember the last time he  _ really _ fed, like he was supposed to. He doubled up on his supplements, and has been having more red meat, but they both know that isn’t enough, especially for all the stress he’s under, and Richie, like the good friend he is, offers a solution. 

“Okay, well, if you don’t have time to hunt or whatever, take some of mine.” 

Eddie looks at him like his ears just popped up onto his head, and Richie has to fight the subconscious urge to pat his hair and make sure nothings started shifting. “... _ What _ did you just say?” 

Richie shrugs, puts his hands on his own knees and squeezes. “I said have some of mine. I’m huge, I’m sure you could take some blood and I’d be just fine—”

“Are you fucking… are you  _ crazy? _ I-I can’t just… I can’t just fucking drink your blood!”

“Why not?” Richie tilts his head, shifts on the couch to try and get comfortable— it’s never comfortable enough. 

“Because… because…!” Eddie is standing now, hands outstretched like that’s enough of an answer, like Richie is just supposed to understand this mysterious reason that is so obvious. Richie tilts his head in the other direction, brows furrowed further. 

“I-I just… it’s just! We don’t… we don’t just  _ drink _ from werewolves!” Eddie finally stutters out, looking a little wild. Richie frowns at him and taps his fingers on his legs. 

“Is it because it tastes bad or something? Are you worried I’m gonna taste like a raccoon or something?” 

Eddie snorts and shoots him a glare. “No— no it’s not that, holy shit I’d never drink from a raccoon. Do you know how many weird blood diseases they could carry, eating from the garbage and shit like that? I’m—”

“Eddie. Focus.” Richie fixes him with the sternest glare he can manage. The conversation is taking way too long for his liking. “What’s the issue? You can tell me, I won’t get offended.” 

Eddie turns away, shoves his hands through his hair and paces a little half circle again. Richie watches him and bites his tongue so he’ll stay quiet; when Eddie is like this, all worked up, Richie has learned it’s best to keep his mouth shut (no matter how difficult it is.) “I-it’s not about things like that Richie. It’s just… werewolf blood is different from human blood and I… I…” 

He turns back and Richie can see all the worry and fear plastered all over his face, like he’s fighting something in his head. 

“I’m worried I’m not gonna be able to stop.” 

_ God _ , the way he says it has Richie’s chest constricting and collapsing in on itself, making him feel like… feel like… 

Feel like some way he doesn’t want to think about right now. 

So he motions for Eddie to come sit by him, puts his hands on Eddie’s shoulders and looks him dead in the eyes. “Eddie, I trust you.” 

Richie isn’t sure if that’s the right thing to say at first, because what the fuck do you say to a guy who just admitted he’s scared he’s gonna drain all the blood from your body? But then Eddie is looking at him with those big doe eyes like he hung the fucking moon, and Richie refuses to take it back. Eddie takes a breath in, squares his shoulders, and nods decisively. 

So that’s how Richie and Eddie end up on the couch surrounded by pillows and towels. Eddie  _ insists _ all the towels are necessary, as are the pillows, and Richie is trying really hard to make sure Eddie can’t find a way to take back his agreement to the whole thing. 

Richie sits obediently (or… as obedient as Richie can sit) while Eddie flits around doing mental, mumbled checklists. He had a hand on his hip and he points out items on an imaginary board in front of him, talking to himself like the absolute cutest madman in the world. 

“Awe, Eds… I love it when you overthink shit.” 

“Shut up, it’s for your safety, idiot.” 

It takes a bit, but they set up to Eddie’s liking, with every inch of the couch covered. Eddie brings over a glass of water and sets it on the coffee table in front of them. “Okay, so.” 

“Okay, so.” Richie repeats, failing miserably to hide his smartass smile. 

Eddie shoots him a nasty look and keeps going like he hadn’t said a word. “If you start to feel like you’re dying, let me know, and I’ll—” he swallows, wringing his hands in his lap. 

“You’ll stop.” Richie assures, nodding over at him. “Like I said, Spaghetti, I trust you, let’s get this show on the road!” Richie leans back a little on the couch and exposes his neck, eyebrows raised and waiting. 

Eddie takes a shuddering breath and glares. “First of all, dont fucking call me that, asshole. Second of all, I’m not going to  _ drink _ from your  _ neck,  _ are you nuts?” He shakes his head and stares at his hands. “That’s like… more intimate than sex, o-or if like, I’m trying to kill you— which I am not,” he adds hastily, reaching for Richie’s arm. “No, I’m going here, it’s the best bet.” Eddie points to a spot right at the crease of Richie’s elbow, pressing down gently until they can both feel Richie’s rapid pulse beating against Eddie’s fingers. 

Richie nods, a little too embarrassed to really respond to Eddie; his phrasing and the way he looks are just too much for him. He’s a little twitchy and his eyes are starting to get that big, blown pupil look they get when Eddie is particularly hungry. 

It sends a shiver down his spine. 

A shiver that only intensifies when Eddie bends his head down to Richie’s arm, flicks the flat of his tongue out over the spot he’d pointed out. It’s a little ticklish and  _ a lot _ … other things, so Richie giggles and clears his throat. 

“I thought you were gonna drink my blood, Eds, not give me a cat bath.” 

“Shut the fuck up, dickhead. You’ll thank me later. It’s so you don’t feel anything.” Eddie shoots back, but his usual fire just isn’t there. His voice is shaky and Richie can tell he’s nervous. He reaches his hand out towards Eddie’s knee and squeezes. 

“You don’t  _ have _ to do this, if you don’t want to. I just…” Richie looks away for a moment, struggling. “I don’t like seeing you not take care of yourself.” 

Eddie stares at him through his lashes, let’s out a shuddery breath against his skin and shakes his head. “No…” He breaks eye contact with Richie before continuing. “I’ve… wanted to.” 

He bites down on Richie before he has time to process the statement. 

It is a little weird, actually, because Richie can feel the pressure of Eddie's mouth, of his teeth breaking into the skin, but it’s numb and faraway. No pain, just like he’d said. 

Time seems to stop for a second while they sit there like that, Richie’s arm pressed up to Eddie’s mouth, held in place by his delicate hands, Richie’s free hand on Eddie’s knee. Nothing happens and Richie feels a little awkward. He fidgets for a second, thinks about cracking a joke or whistling or something. 

Then Eddie starts to suck. 

That’s a weird feeling, too, Richie realizes. Because he can feel the gentle pressure of Eddie’s mouth, the way his tongue pushes against the skin and sends tingles up his arms. His arm feels so sensitive, all his blood rushing to that focal point Eddie’s lips are pressed against until Richie can’t think straight. 

Everything starts to get hazy, slowly like someone dimming the lights. First, it’s the surroundings that go; the background noise of the television, the glass of water on the coffee table. There’s only the couch, and Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,  _ Eddie.  _

His fingertips start to feel numb, all those shivery tingles manifesting there, creeping up his hands and his arms. He feels like little sparklers are going off inside him, spreading over his vines like it’s lit gunpowder. All roads lead to his chest, where the sparklers converge into one big shiver that wracks his body in a big wave, from his head to his toes. A soft sigh escapes Richie, and he smiles, staring down at Eddie while he drinks. 

“I… I think’m star’in’a feel it, Eddie Spaghetti.” His words begin to slur together, his tongue feeling heavy and warm in his mouth. His whole body feels warm, actually, warm and safe like a cozy blanket or a fireplace on a cold day. Eddie’s eyes flick up towards him, pupils blown so wide its like his eyes are black. Another shiver hits Richie and he goes boneless, leaning forward until his forehead is pressed against Eddie’s neck. 

The warmth is seeping into him and everything feels so nice, so  _ perfect.  _ Everything is blurry except for Eddie, a beautiful creature in focus. Richie watches in dazed amazement as Eddie feeds, feels his throat bobbing while he swallows and his breathing come out measured and even. Richie feels fuzzy and shimmery all over, like millions of tiny little stars are buzzing around under his skin. 

Richie closes his eyes and tries to focus on breathing. Everything feels so good, so comfortable, he could stay like this forever. Richie smiles, sighs out Eddie’s name with the intent to tell him something, but he forgets. 

He’s not sure how much time passes like that, with Richie dozed off and Eddie feeding, but it’s pure bliss the entire time, absolute heaven. Richie opens his eyes only when he feels Eddie pull off him, a soft and distant sound that he isn’t sure came from himself or Eddie. 

He can feel himself getting readjusted on the couch, like he’s in a faraway dream. Eddie lays him down against the pillows, takes off the towels from under him and gets him comfortable. Richie can barely move, his bones a lead weight but his body floating, like gravity can’t even touch him. Eddies lips are moving but the sound isn’t carrying over, everything muffled and muted. 

Except for Eddie, who has fuzzy light all around his head like a halo, like he’s an angel. 

There’s something red and dripping at the corner of his mouth. Richie frowns a little, willing his arm to move, to lift up to Eddie’s beautiful face and brush his thumb over the smudge of color. It’s wet and sticky, and Richie furrows his brows at the feeling, a confused whine escaping him. 

Eddie stares back at him, watching, and when he seems to realize Richie isn’t going to say anything, he turns his face just a fraction of an inch, takes Richie’s thumb against his lips and flicks his tongue out, taking off whatever’s there.

Richie smiles wide, his heart squeezing so tight he assumes Eddie must have lost control and he  _ did _ die, because this is heaven, he’s  _ sure _ it is. His chest starts to rumble with a feeling that comes deep from his core, something that only shows itself in the presence of the things that mean  _ home _ and  _ happy  _ and  _ love _ .

His eyes start to flutter shut, and he swears Eddie presses a kiss against his hand before it drops onto his stomach like a ragdolls. He drifts into sleep to the thought. 

********

Richie wakes up feeling like he has a hangover. 

He can’t quite remember much between when Eddie took the first bite to now, but his whole body feels sluggish and his head hurts  _ just  _ a little, right behind his eyes. 

He groans, throws a blanket over his face to block out the light and tries to roll over. Richie hears a click, feels the couch sink down by his feet, so he braves a look to see 

It’s Eddie, a book on the table and a spiral notebook in his lap. He’s got the little side lamp on instead of the overhead light, and he looks like he’s concentrating really hard. He gestures with his pen towards the coffee table. 

“Drink water. It’ll help you feel better. Then once I’m not worried you’re gonna fall off your ass when you take two steps, we can get you some food.” Eddie doesn’t look up from his work, very, very focused. 

Richie scoffs, then tries to sit up and immediately regrets it. He flops back onto the couch and ignores Eddie’s tiny snicker. Once he drinks some water and is able to take in his surroundings a little better, he studies Eddie. 

His skin is back to that suntanned hue he sports so well for someone who is technically undead. His freckles are standing out and his hair is all soft and shiny chestnut again. The bags aren’t so big and dark anymore, and he's fidgeting much less than when he got there earlier in the night. Richie smiles. 

“You look good, Kaspbrak.” 

Eddie shoots him a quick side glance before returning to his work, taps his pen to his chin and pretends like he isn’t smiling a little smile. Richie notices though. “Thanks, Tozier. You look pretty shitty yourself.” 

Richie throws his head back and laughs, making himself a warm pile in the cushions. He dozes off again to the fuzzy soft image of Eddie doing his homework, fed and smiling. 


End file.
